When We Shed Our Skins
by ZosiaDetroit
Summary: One-shot, missing scene from Taran Wanderer. Fflewddur and Llyan wait out a snowstorm during their journey back from Caer Dallben to Craddoc's cottage. Surrealist-fluff, for lack of a better description... A little odd, but hopefully enjoyable.


_"Bear my friend good company. [...] Stray not far from him, for even such a bold bard as Fflewddur Fflam is no stranger to loneliness."_

_-The High King-_

* * *

It was the worst snowstorm Fflewddur had witnessed in years. The weather had been fair enough as he and Llyan—the giant mountain cat he rode as a steed—set out from Caer Dallben and passed through the Valley Cantrevs. Already, the trees stood starkly naked, braced for winter; but the sun favored them with a warming light as they rode back through the same countryside they'd traversed just a season before, to the solitary homestead of Craddoc the shepherd, bearing a message for their friend Taran. Yet as the pair crossed into the tallest hills, the ever-fickle spirits of air turned foul, kicking up a sudden blizzard that veiled the terrain in swaths of white, obscuring paths and rendering even the most familiar landmarks strange.

Fflewddur and Llyan were woefully lost. They had been lost even before the snows began, and the storm only worsened their plight. It skewed the bard's sense of direction, blotting out the sun that might otherwise guide him. Even keen-eyed Llyan seemed disoriented as she sniffed the wind and squinted vainly through the torrent of large snowflakes. They forged ahead resolutely; but soon enough the sweeping, shoulder-high drifts thwarted even the huge cat's powerful strides.

"We'll have to take shelter, my friend," Fflewddur called out above the wind, his voice trembling with cold. "Important as it is for Taran to hear our message, that does require us reaching Craddoc's cottage in the first place—and in my case, with a tongue thawed enough to speak."

Llyan yowled in frustration, but heeded the bard as he directed her toward a wall of potentially sheltering cliffs. At best, Fflewddur hoped to find a leeward crevasse that could protect them from the harshest winds. He gave a cry of exhausted delight when Llyan poked her head into a split in the rock and found that it opened up into a small cave. It was a cramped space: just a head or two taller than the bard himself, a bit more than an arm-span wide, and ten or so paces long. The rough, grey stone arced overhead—chill and damp, but mercifully free of bats. The stale air hung nearly thick enough to swallow. Yet after the deadly cold outside, the cave seemed a welcome, if barren, sanctuary.

The companions settled in to wait. Fflewddur drew his ragged wool cloak tightly around himself and leaned against the cave wall, watching his own breath plume in the stillness. Llyan planted herself at the threshold for a while, her ears perked toward the sound of the gusting wind. It wasn't long, however, before the mighty cat began pacing impatiently, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth along the length of the narrow cave. He thick tail thumped against the cave walls from time to time, but she either didn't notice or didn't care.

"I know, I know—I don't like this any more than you do," Fflewddur said, flattening himself against the stone as the giant mountain cat brushed past. "But even _you_ were struggling through the drifts out there. We must be patient. The snow can't last forever—and so long as it ends before _we_ do, if you take my meaning, we'll be on our way again sometime." The bard stepped back to the cave entrance and peered out into the blinding snowstorm. "Although, by the looks of things, I'm afraid that will be later rather than sooner," he grumbled.

Llyan padded up behind him and nudged the harp slung upon his back. From within its leather case, the strings jangled discordantly in protest.

"I'm sorry, old girl," said the bard. "I would give you a tune if I could, but my fingers are numbed to the bone. Here—see?"

Fflewddur uncrossed his arms and held up his hands for Llyan to view; in truth, his fingertips had gone white with cold. The cat's amber eyes blinked, her whiskers twitched, and she let out a pitiful mewl that seemed to convey both sympathy and disappointment. Dejectedly, she slunk to the rear of the cave and lay down, tucking her massive paws beneath her.

With a sigh, the bard turned from the dispiriting scene outside, unslung his harp from his back, and went to sit near Llyan. He settled himself down with the instrument beside him, and leaned against the cat's flank, sinking deeply as he could into her thick, soft fur. Though the cave was far milder than the blizzard they had escaped, it was still wintry cold, and the additional warmth Llyan radiated felt almost transcendent. Absentmindedly, Fflewddur gave the cat a few scratches beneath her chin and a pat between her ears, eliciting a low, rumbling purr.

"And so, we wait." The bard exhaled another weary sigh, huddled deeper into his cloak, and leaned his head back, closing his eyes. He certainly _hoped_ they would outlast the storm and survive their journey. A gnawing hunger had already begun to writhe within him, and his body ached from hard travel. If he and Llyan didn't find their way soon… But no—it wouldn't pay to let such thoughts gain any purchase. Beyond the cavern threshold, the wind howled and shrieked like an angry beast, muffled only slightly by the masses of stone. Fflewddur tried to ignore the sound and coax his mind toward warmer, happier thoughts: of springtime and sunlight; and glowing hearths; and heavy blankets lined with fur; and the company of good friends. If sleep would take him for but a little while, time would slip by more quickly…

A soft rustling at the front of the cave drew Fflewddur's attention, even above the sound of the gale. Dazed, he glanced up and saw a figure silhouetted against the icy blue light beyond. He blinked several times to clear his eyes…

It was a woman: neither short nor tall; youthful, but well past girlishness; cloaked in a long mantle of thick, tawny fur. Her unbound hair fell over her shoulders, glossy and warm-toned like burnished wood. Wordlessly, she strode forward—her movements fluid, lithe, but with a hint of strength behind them. As she drew close and looked down at the bard, he saw her eyes were the color of slate… or the sky before a thunderstorm… or the waters of River Kynvael, and the northern sea to which they flowed. And those eyes were watching him—intense and unwavering, though seemingly not unkind.

The bard moved to rise, but the stranger put her hands to his shoulders and, with a firm but gentle press, urged him to remain seated.

"Great Belin… Who _are_ you, milady?" Fflewddur managed to ask at last, through his shock. "How have you come…?"

The stranger smiled—somewhat impishly—and shook her head, but no words parted her lips. Instead, she unpinned her cloak and swept it around the freezing bard's shoulders. He glanced down at it in wonderment, touching numb fingers to the soft, heavy fur. Beneath its weight, he already felt warmer, shielded, restored.

"But you yourself will freeze—" he protested, looking back up at the woman. Again, she smiled—wider this time—and again shook her head without reply.

Was she an enchantress, then? Or one of the Fair Folk? So she must be, for who else could emerge so suddenly, so mysteriously, from the swirling rage of a snowstorm, and willingly relinquish her cloak without the slightest shiver? Bewildered, Fflewddur watched as she bent to pick up his harp and held it out to him in slender hands.

"A song? You wish me to play?" he asked.

She nodded in assent; warm encouragement crinkled the corners of her eyes. Gracefully, she sank to the cavern floor and took a seat upon one hip, bracing herself against an outstretched hand as though settling in for a lengthy performance. When Fflewddur hesitated, she nodded again, urging him on.

He didn't dare but obey. Still partially huddled beneath the fur mantle, the bard slid his harp from its case, set the instrument against his shoulder, and attempted to play. To his surprise and great relief, his formerly cold, stiff hands were now perfectly limber. A melody poured forth—bright, and warm, and rich with life. Heartened, Fflewddur began to sing along, playing with the resonant echo off the cavern walls and wrapping both he and the stranger in a blanket of sound. She was grinning now, bright teeth flashing even in the dim light.

How long he played and sang, Fflewddur couldn't tell; one song flowed into the next, and the next, and the next, like water coursing over a riverbed or wind through meadow-grass. His fingers did not tire, nor his voice grow hoarse. Rapt, the stranger listened—sometimes closing her eyes to focus on the stream of sound; sometimes swaying a little to its rhythm; sometimes watching intently as the bard's fingers danced across the strings.

Finally, as the notes of one song trailed away into silence, and before Fflewddur could begin another, the woman reached out and stilled the faintly humming strings with her palm. She took the harp once more into her own hands and reverently laid it aside, then turned back to face the bard. Again, she reached out—this time, to cup his cheek; and it felt like a caress from the summer sun. Fflewddur turned into her hand slightly, closing his eyes and savoring the sensation, breathing a sigh of contentment and release.

"Who _are_ you, milady?" he breathed, barely audible for fear of breaking whatever spell she had cast. "Please… Give me your name, that I might find you again… or honor you in song, at least, if I never see you more…"

He opened his eyes and saw a trace of sadness in the stranger's expression—a shadow of bittersweet regret, and perhaps even pity.

"You will not?" Fflewddur murmured. "Or you _cannot_…"

The stranger shook her head apologetically: no, she could not. But then she leaned in closer still, and pressed her forehead to his—warm, and solid, and reassuring. Her hair smelled faintly of woodsmoke and evergreens—of hearth; of home. Fflewddur sank into the blue depths of her eyes, then closed his own eyes and sank further still into the kiss she offered. At the touch of her lips, warmth flooded his bones, his heart, his skin… It was not a soft and gentle kiss; nor a passionate one; but rather assured and sweetly insistent, as if she were claiming territory for her own.

But in the span of a few untaken breaths, it was over. The stranger pulled away—only a hand's length away, but away nonetheless. Fflewddur gasped for air, blinked… and found himself staring into a pair of eyes no longer blue, but glowing amber—fey, and vaguely feline. He jumped a little at the sudden transformation. Yet the stranger merely gave him a wry, sideways smile. Gently, she ran her hand through his disheveled hair, and opened her mouth to speak…

And Fflewddur woke with a start. It took half a moment for him to realize Llyan had shifted behind him, and was now vigorously licking his head with her raspy tongue.

"Oy! Hey now, have a care!" the bard cried, hurriedly twisting out of her grasp. "I have no doubt I could stand a good grooming by now—and I certainly appreciate your effort—but that's hardly the way to go about it. Great Belin, I am a king and a bard, not a cat," he muttered.

Llyan countered Fflewddur's protest with a mildly vexed yowl, but did not attempt to resume her ministrations. The bard shook his head vigorously, attempting to clear away the fog of sleep.

"Odd… What a very odd dream…" he mused. He felt warmer and far less weary now, but a pang of loneliness twinged somewhere deep within his chest. It was a familiar ache: one he usually managed to veil with song, and story, and the thrill of his ramblings; yet one that inevitably resurfaced in times of greatest darkness—or of great but unshared joy. He glanced down at his harp. It rested beside him still, ensconced in its case.

"Well, Llyan…" he said with a sigh, "I believe my hands have thawed a bit. How about that song you wanted? Something to pass the time, and reward you for your good company…"

The great mountain cat turned her golden eyes toward him and gave a satisfied meow of approval, as though she fully understood his every word. And so, as in his dream, the bard eased the harp from its case, set it to his shoulder, touched fingers to strings, and began to play. It was a song stripped bare this time—wordless and reduced to its essence—a song of great yearning, but also of enduring hope.

* * *

Author's Note (i.e. Apology): _Sooo_... this isn't much more than fluff, written to help myself bust through some writer's block while I continue chipping away at a long (read: overly-ambitious) post-canon fic. I probably shouldn't be posting this without the other piece alongside, since it won't make much sense without context from that larger tale. But what can I say? That long-fic won't be finished for a while yet, and I had an impatient character on my hands who wanted a bit of screen time. So here it is. Think of it as a vignette in the vein of "The Dream of Macsen Wledig," from the Mabinogion. I enjoyed writing it, and I hope it provides a somewhat pleasant diversion for any who happen to read it.

Cheers,

~Z~


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